The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
“My first wife—'tis not very civil, But, faith, she was a very devil.
She brought me money, brought me beauty
But not a grain of nuptial duty;
For all she at the altar swore, Did not remain the day-light o'er.
Old Stirrup-Hall she call'd her throne,
And here no master would she own:
Whether with tongue or threat'ning fist, In vain I found it to resist:
At length, indeed, I thought it best, If on my pillow I would rest,
To let fierce Madam have her way
And wield at home the sov'reign sway.
Thus I, who daily dealt out law, And kept the neighbourhood in awe;
Though potent I abroad could roam, Return'd to be a slave at home.
In short to check the daily storm, I to her humours did conform;
And, to close all domestic riot, I held my tongue and liv'd in quiet:
But she contriv'd with such keen art To play the matrimonial part,
That all the country did agree To throw the real blame on me:
Nay, I must own, the truth to tell, Domestic things she manag'd well.
—Were she displeas'd, and we alone,
She would, but in a soften'd tone, Sharply and glibly lay it on.
Yes, would hiss forth in viper's phrase, Fool, upstart, and et ceteras:
But if a creature did appear That could her observations hear
'Twas then my love, my knight, my dear.
Though 'tis long past, my ear still rings,
With her confounded whisperings;
And every fierce and taunting look Are character'd in mem'ry's book.
—Five years and upwards I had been
Beneath this iron-scepter'd queen,
When fate most kindly set me free From her domestic tyranny.
Though I a downcast visage bore, As I my sable trappings wore;
Yet I must honestly confess, So far from feelings of distress,
'Twas with a smiling heart I trod, Behind her bier, the church-yard sod;
And silent thought, with tearless eye, This was a happy obsequy.
But still I've prov'd without disguise,
Experience has not made me wise;
For ere another year was flown, The Church made me and Lucy one,
Whom shortly my good friend will see The mirror of stupidity.
The one so wise was, she must rule, The other is almost a fool,
She, such a cold, unmeaning elf, Thinks not for me, nor for herself,
While I am always on the spur To think both for myself and her.”
“Yes,” Syntax said, ”to me it seems
You've run into the two extremes;
Your mind, I think, had lost its force,
Or you'd have sought the middle course.
Your conduct, Knight, but seems to prove
Reason has nought to do with Love.
Philosophers have said, 'tis true, And it may be applied to you
That Reason fails whene'er the dart
Of am'rous passion stabs the heart,
Or when its secret pulses move To beat time to the tune of love.
'Tis whim, 'tis fancy, or 'tis chance,
That joins us in the wedding dance;
Though some have thought a wayward fate
Commands or shapes the nuptial state:
By others an opinion's given That marriages are made in Heaven;
Though much I fear you'll not agree
In that sublime Philosophy; But 'tis a diff'rent case with me,
Who, from my sense of love's dominion, Declare I join in the opinion,
That wives are known who do combine
Some little spice of the divine; At least that was the case with mine.
Nor my fond hope shall I now smother,
That Syntax self may get another,
Who does those qualities possess Which promise married happiness:
And as I do with candour view, (I do not say 'tis so with you,)
The various causes which perplex The marriage state and Hymen vex,
I think the husband frames the strife In full proportion with the wife.”
“You men of learning,” said the Knight,
“Who in your closets strike a light
On life's so sombre mysteries,
And shape and paint them as you please;—
You classic men, whose fancy gives A colour to whatever lives,
To all our sorrows or our joys, To what delights or what annoys,
Your fine-drawn, your high-flying sense, Disdains our dull experience,
Which measures all things by the square,
And sees things as they clearly are;—
If you my first grand wife had known,
Who, I thank Heaven, is dead and gone,
That she was fit, you would have said,
E'en to have shar'd the Thund'rer's bed,
A Juno she, and it appears
She would have box'd the Thund'rer's ears;—
While, as I speak, you may divine, She had the courage to box mine,
Nor will you think I do deplore That she's box'd up to box no more.
And when you see the gentler grace
That now supplies Ma'am Barbara's place,
With flowers from your poetic tree You'll deck her insipidity,
But still in vain, I think you'll strive To make her tell you she's alive.”
She brought me money, brought me beauty
But not a grain of nuptial duty;
For all she at the altar swore, Did not remain the day-light o'er.
Old Stirrup-Hall she call'd her throne,
And here no master would she own:
Whether with tongue or threat'ning fist, In vain I found it to resist:
At length, indeed, I thought it best, If on my pillow I would rest,
To let fierce Madam have her way
And wield at home the sov'reign sway.
Thus I, who daily dealt out law, And kept the neighbourhood in awe;
Though potent I abroad could roam, Return'd to be a slave at home.
In short to check the daily storm, I to her humours did conform;
And, to close all domestic riot, I held my tongue and liv'd in quiet:
But she contriv'd with such keen art To play the matrimonial part,
That all the country did agree To throw the real blame on me:
Nay, I must own, the truth to tell, Domestic things she manag'd well.
—Were she displeas'd, and we alone,
She would, but in a soften'd tone, Sharply and glibly lay it on.
Yes, would hiss forth in viper's phrase, Fool, upstart, and et ceteras:
But if a creature did appear That could her observations hear
'Twas then my love, my knight, my dear.
Though 'tis long past, my ear still rings,
With her confounded whisperings;
And every fierce and taunting look Are character'd in mem'ry's book.
—Five years and upwards I had been
Beneath this iron-scepter'd queen,
When fate most kindly set me free From her domestic tyranny.
Though I a downcast visage bore, As I my sable trappings wore;
270
'Twas with a smiling heart I trod, Behind her bier, the church-yard sod;
And silent thought, with tearless eye, This was a happy obsequy.
But still I've prov'd without disguise,
Experience has not made me wise;
For ere another year was flown, The Church made me and Lucy one,
Whom shortly my good friend will see The mirror of stupidity.
The one so wise was, she must rule, The other is almost a fool,
She, such a cold, unmeaning elf, Thinks not for me, nor for herself,
While I am always on the spur To think both for myself and her.”
“Yes,” Syntax said, ”to me it seems
You've run into the two extremes;
Your mind, I think, had lost its force,
Or you'd have sought the middle course.
Your conduct, Knight, but seems to prove
Reason has nought to do with Love.
Philosophers have said, 'tis true, And it may be applied to you
That Reason fails whene'er the dart
Of am'rous passion stabs the heart,
Or when its secret pulses move To beat time to the tune of love.
'Tis whim, 'tis fancy, or 'tis chance,
That joins us in the wedding dance;
Though some have thought a wayward fate
Commands or shapes the nuptial state:
By others an opinion's given That marriages are made in Heaven;
Though much I fear you'll not agree
In that sublime Philosophy; But 'tis a diff'rent case with me,
Who, from my sense of love's dominion, Declare I join in the opinion,
That wives are known who do combine
Some little spice of the divine; At least that was the case with mine.
Nor my fond hope shall I now smother,
That Syntax self may get another,
Who does those qualities possess Which promise married happiness:
And as I do with candour view, (I do not say 'tis so with you,)
The various causes which perplex The marriage state and Hymen vex,
I think the husband frames the strife In full proportion with the wife.”
“You men of learning,” said the Knight,
“Who in your closets strike a light
On life's so sombre mysteries,
And shape and paint them as you please;—
You classic men, whose fancy gives A colour to whatever lives,
To all our sorrows or our joys, To what delights or what annoys,
Your fine-drawn, your high-flying sense, Disdains our dull experience,
Which measures all things by the square,
And sees things as they clearly are;—
If you my first grand wife had known,
Who, I thank Heaven, is dead and gone,
That she was fit, you would have said,
E'en to have shar'd the Thund'rer's bed,
271
She would have box'd the Thund'rer's ears;—
While, as I speak, you may divine, She had the courage to box mine,
Nor will you think I do deplore That she's box'd up to box no more.
And when you see the gentler grace
That now supplies Ma'am Barbara's place,
With flowers from your poetic tree You'll deck her insipidity,
But still in vain, I think you'll strive To make her tell you she's alive.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |